I don't give her time to process that.
I tug the strap.
It slides down her arm, catching at her elbow.
Her breath comes out in a rush, a sound that's half gasp, half whimper.
The white fabric drapes, exposing the pale skin of her shoulder, one perfect breast. The rosy peak tightens in the cool air of the room. Her body betrays her.
I let my gaze linger on her breast before dragging it back to her face.
Her cheeks are a deep, burning red. Her lips are parted. Her blue eyes are wide and fixed on me, swimming with a storm of shame and defiance and something else.
I don't tell her the whole of it.
The truth is, I want to break her too.
Not the same way as some of the other men with hungry eyes and deep pockets tonight.
No, I want to make her mine, in every single way. I need it.
But despite what she thinks, I’m not interested in taking what hasn’t been offered. I don’t have to tell her that, though. I just wait patiently for her to pull away, tell me no—a real no—or give me any sign that she’s only doing this because she has to.
She doesn’t.
I tug the other strap.
It falls just as easily, and the sheer white fabric pools around her waist, leaving her naked from the waist up.
The instinct to cross her arms, to cover herself, is written all over her face. I see the tension in her shoulders, the way her muscles tighten to do it.
I lift my free hand, not touching her, just holding it in the space between us, a clear command to stop.
She freezes.
Her arms stay at her sides, trembling.
“Keep them there,” I say, my voice quiet, but the order clear.
She does.
"You don't hide yourself from me," I add.
My gaze takes her in. The soft swell of her breasts. The flat plane of her stomach. The dip of her navel. Her skin is pale, almost luminous in the warm light of the suite. She’s beautiful. Unbelievably so.
My anger is still there, a low thrum under my skin, but it’s mixing with something else now. Something hot and possessive and far more dangerous.
I paid for this.
The thought cuts through everything else.
I paid for the right to look. I paid for the right to touch.
I paid for the right to own her, for tonight.
My fingers trail from her shoulder down her arm. Her skin is smooth. Warm. I can feel the frantic beat of her pulse in her wrist when I brush over it.
I watch her face as I touch her, looking for any sign that she wants me to stop. Any sign that this is truly, deeply unwanted.
